Libertas
by Obsidian Skin
Summary: "Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you." – Jean-Paul Sartre. Sequel to Obedientiam.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** WELCOME TO ROUND TWO. I'm so sorry that this took me forever to write! I was feeling a little uninspired. I literally wrote like a sentence every night before bed and then stopped. So, ummm, yeah. Here it is, folks! The sequel to _Obedientiam_...

 **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing! I make no profit off of this. This is solely for my enjoyment and hopefully for the enjoyment of others! ;)

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"We're home, Stiles."

Stiles blinked his eyes open as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking for the hand's owner, Stiles came nose to nose with his dad. He looked over his dad's shoulder and saw that they were, indeed, home. "Did I fall asleep?" He asked groggily. John laughed softly. "Not so much 'fell asleep' as 'passed out.' C'mon, let's get inside." John wrapped a hand around Stiles bicep and helped him out of the car. Stiles looked down behind him as he felt something slide off his shoulders. It was the blanket Lydia had given him at the school. The last thing Stiles remembered was sitting in the car talking to Lydia about something random. Anything to keep his mind off the ordeal he had just been through. Stiles didn't know how long they had talked before he had fallen asleep. Or rather passed out, as his dad said.

Stiles picked the white blanket up off the seat and brought it with him inside the house. Once he had both feet inside the house, he took in a long, deep breath. It felt good to be home. Stiles stepped further into the house and closed the front door behind him. He knew his dad was going to have a thousand questions about what happened to him while he was missing, but all Stiles wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for a million years. But he had something to do before that. "Hey, Dad?" Stiles said softly. John turned at his son's call. "I'm going to go grab a shower," Stiles said as he gestured to the stairs. John nodded his understanding as Stiles mounted the stairs and disappeared up them.

Stiles first stop was his room. He dropped the white blanket on his bed before rummaging through his dresser for a clean pair of sweats to wear. He pulled out a faded grey pair from the bottom and closed the drawer. He also grabbed underwear and socks before he left his room and entered the bathroom. Stiles cranked the shower handle as far as it would go to quickly heat the water. He then stripped off the shirt Cullen had forced him into and threw it in the trashcan. Stiles considered burning it later.

He was about to strip off his pants when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Stepping closer to the sink, Stiles twisted his body around in an attempt to see a reflection of his back. He inhaled shakily as he saw the row of burns near his waistline, the scabbed over welts, and the various colored bruises that mottled his skin. He twisted to see over his right shoulder and that's when he saw it: 'Cullen Cedars' carved in elegant script. Stiles quickly pushed away from the sink and stepped back until he could no longer see himself in the mirror. Stiles braced a hand against the wall as dizziness threatened to knock him down. His dad could never see that name carved into his son's skin. Stiles refused to let it happen.

Stiles stripped down and stepped into the shower. He didn't even care that the water was practically boiling his skin. All he cared about was getting clean and being rid of the layer of grime he felt he had collected in Cedars' basement. Stiles scrubbed until his skin was bright red and even then he didn't feel completely clean. He sighed as he finally shut off the stream of water and stepped out of the shower. Snagging a towel off the bar, he dried himself off and slipped into the sweats he had brought into the bathroom. Stiles quickly ran a comb through his hair, brushed his teeth, collected his jeans and boxers off the floor, and left the bathroom. He padded barefoot back down the hall to his bedroom. Stiles threw his dirty clothing into his laundry basket as he passed it and then went and sat on the edge of his bed. He could feel exhaustion creeping back over him but his plan to sleep for a million years didn't sound as appealing anymore. He looked down at the digital clock. It displayed the numbers 11:46 pm in fluorescent blue. Stiles sighed and rubbed at his forehead. He flopped backwards onto the bed and let his arms stretch out across the mattress. A hollow feeling had over taken his stomach and Stiles knew that he should probably eat something. But the thought of putting food into his mouth was strangely appalling. Stiles never turned down food; it seemed as if he was always eating something. But, at that particular moment, food was the last thing he wanted. He pulled his legs up onto the bed and, turning onto his side, brought them in towards his chest. He folded one arm under his head and stared through his open door into the hallway.

On the wall, there was a picture of the Stilinski family from when his mom was alive. John had hung it right outside of Stiles' door upon eight year old Stiles' request. Stiles still occasionally slept with the door open and stared at the picture until he fell asleep. Something about seeing his mother's smiling face in that picture had a sort of calming affect on him. Even now, he could feel himself starting to relax. He let his eyes slip closed and finally gave in to the exhaustion.

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Stiles woke up feeling disoriented. Something didn't feel right. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he peered through the remaining sleep fog in his eyes and took in his surroundings. He was covered in a blanket that he didn't remember getting under and his feet were shoved under a pillow but there was another pillow under his head. Frowning, Stiles pushed himself all the way upright to get his bearings. Looking around him, he finally got it. He had fallen asleep upside down on the bed. That would explain why his feet were under a pillow. His dad must have come into Stiles' room last night and covered him with a blanket and put a pillow under his head.

Stiles flung the blanket off and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Or rather he tried to. It seemed as though he hadn't completely unentangled himself from the blanket. Instead of placing his feet on the floor, they got caught somewhere behind him in the material. Stiles' arms windmilled as he felt his upper body beginning to pitch forward. He turned his torso backwards and tried to quickly unentangle his appendages from the blanket but it was a lost cause. He fell backwards off the bed and landed on the floor with a loud ' _boom_ '. Stiles groaned and clutched at the back of his head. Suddenly, there was the sound of rapid footfalls coming up the stairs and down the hall. John burst into Stiles' bedroom and looked down at his fallen son. John raised his eyebrows. "You okay?" He asked simply. Stiles unscrewed his eyes and looked up at his dad. "Yeah," he replied thickly, his voice stilled filled with sleep. "I'm good." Stiles fully and efficiently kicked off the blanket and stood up. He quickly tugged his sweatshirt down over his healing wrists to keep them out of his dad's sight. John nodded several times before he asked, "Do you want some breakfast? I haven't made anything yet, but I'm sure we can find something."

Stiles looked behind him at the clock. The time was 10:16. Stiles frowned. "Are you saying you haven't eaten yet?" He asked his dad curiously. "And aren't you supposed to be at work?"

John waved off the first question and he replied to the second. "I took the day off. Now, do you want breakfast or not?"

Inwardly, Stiles sighed. Outwardly, he nodded. John nodded back and disappeared back into the hallway. Once his dad was gone, Stiles hinged his head back and blew out a heavy breath. He knew this wasn't going to end well.

"Oh, hey, Stiles?"

Stiles snapped his head up as his dad suddenly appeared back in the room. "Mhmm?" He answered.

"Scott called about an hour ago. He said there's only a half day of school today. He's coming over later," John informed him. Stiles felt his insides freeze. He wasn't sure he was ready to see Scott yet. Stiles had shot his best friend. He knew Scott healed fast, but that was no reason for Stiles to brush off what he had done.

Stiles forced a small smile onto his face. "Oh, that's awesome," he said with false enthusiasm. John smiled and once again disappeared. Stiles debated escaping through the window to go find a place to hide for the day. In the end, he decided to just face the music. He took a deep breath as he left his room to prepare himself for whatever the world planned to throw his way.

As he stepped into the kitchen, he saw his father standing over a pan of eggs on the stovetop. John looked up as he heard Stiles enter the room. "Are scrambled eggs okay? I was going for fried but that didn't exactly work out." A rueful smile spread over his face as he scratched at his forehead with his free hand. Stiles laughed softly. He loved his father dearly but the man couldn't cook to save his life. Walking over to stand next to his dad, he took the spatula out of the man's hand. "How 'bout you let me do this? I'm not really in the mood for burnt food," Stiles offered as he gently hip-bumped his dad out of the way. John chuckled and stepped back. "That sounds like a good idea."

There were a few moments of silence as Stiles continued the job his father had started. "So, I was thinking that maybe today we could go have you checked over at the hospital," John suggested gently. Stiles knew his dad was going to ask sooner or later, but he didn't expect his dad to take the sooner route. "Dad, I told you: I'm fine. I don't need to be checked out. If something was wrong, I'd tell you," Stiles responded over his shoulder. He heard his dad sigh. "Yeah, I know that. I believe that you're fine. But, will you please do your old man a favor?" John pleaded.

Stiles sighed as he turned off the burner and removed the pan from the heat. "Dad, I –"

"It's fine if you don't want to go to a hospital! Would you agree to having Melissa check you over?" John almost sounded desperate. Stiles wanted to put his dad's worries to rest, but if he agreed to have someone look him over they would see all the damage Cullen had done to Stiles' back. Which would mean that Stiles would have to tell his dad everything that had happened. Which would then mean that Stiles would run the risk of his dad seeing the name carved into his shoulder and Stiles refused to let him see that. He didn't reply to his dad's suggestion. Instead he focused on getting two plates out of the cabinet and divided the eggs evenly onto them. He then took the bread out of the fridge and put two pieces into the toaster. After he pressed down the lever on the toaster, he took a seat across from his father at the table. He rested his forearms on the tabletop as he said, "Do you trust me?" He raised his eyebrows inquisitively at his dad. John copied Stiles stance and folded his hands on the tabletop. "Of course I do," he said seriously. Stiles nodded. "And you said you believe me, right?"

John nodded firmly. "Yes."

"Then believe me when I say that I am fine and trust me enough to let this go," Stiles pleaded softly. He watched as a tinge of sadness creeped into this dad's eyes.

John sighed. He didn't agree with this entirely but he could tell that this just wasn't the time to deal with the subject. He nodded in response to Stiles' request. Stiles gave him a thankful smile and vacated his seat as he heard the toaster ejecting the toast. He had just deposited the plate of eggs and toast in front of his dad when there was a loud knock on the front door.

"It's open!" He called. The door was opened to admit an out of breath Scott with his backpack slung over his shoulders.

"Yo, Scotty," Stiles greeted. "Why are you breathing so heavy?"

Scott kicked the door closed behind him and dropped his bag by the door. "I didn't have my bike," he explained as he stepped into the kitchen. Stiles raised an eyebrow. "So what? Did you run? You ran didn't you? Freaking werewolf..."

Scott smiled at his friend's falsely bitter tone. "Hi, Mr. Stilinski," he said to the man. John smiled at him. "How're you doing, Scott? We're just about to have breakfast if you want to join us," John offered. Scott's smile grew a little. "Thanks, but I'm good," he said as he took a seat at the table. Stiles rolled his eyes a little and started to inch toward the stairs. John caught him before he made the first step.

"Sit down, Stiles," his dad said firmly with a hint of peppiness in his voice. Stiles's legs immediately propelled him towards the table. He pulled out a chair and quickly sat down. Once he was seated, he sent a heatless glare to his dad. John grinned and got up to retrieve the second plate of food Stiles had made. He set it and a fork on the table in front of Stiles. "Eat," he said firmly. He hated using the curse against his son but Stiles needed to eat. That was one thing John was going to make sure happened. He watched as Stiles picked up the fork and began to eat the scrambled eggs. John then got a glass out of the cabinet and filled it with water which he then slid in front Scott. Scott looked up and said a quick 'thank you'.

John sat back down in his chair to finish his own breakfast. Seeing as it was only 10:37, he asked, "So, did school let out earlier than expected?"

Scott set down his glass before answering. "Yeah! We had a test in math today and the teacher said once we finished we were free to leave. Math was the last class I had for today," he explained. John nodded his understanding and went back to eating his breakfast.

"Um, Stiles, man, are you okay?"

John looked up at Scott's question. Stiles had his eyes closed and a hand covering his mouth. John knew that look. He bolted up out of his chair and around the table. He slotted a hand under Stiles' armpit, hauled him out of the chair, and led him into the nearest bathroom. He had just enough time to flip up the toilet seat before Stiles lurched forward and threw up everything he had just forced down. The second time he retched, nothing came up but bile. The third and fourth times were just dry heaves. Once John was sure his son had finished, he flushed the toilet and closed the lid. "Sit down," he told Stiles before he left to go fetch a glass of water. Scott already had one waiting for him. John gratefully accepted the glass and stepped back into the bathroom. Stiles had propped his elbows on his knees and was holding his head in his hands. "Here," John said to get Stiles' attention. Stiles brought his head up and took the glass from his dad. He took a quick sip and swirled the water around in his mouth. He stood up, leaned over the sink, and spat out the water. He turned on the tap and let the water run down the drain. He took a second sip of water and swallowed that one. He set the glass down and turned off the tap.

"Are you okay?" His dad asked concernedly. Stiles pulled his lips into a lazy smile. "Fan–friggin–tastic," he replied sarcastically. John sighed worriedly. "Why don't you go lay down for a bit? I'll come check on you later."

Stiles flashed a thumbs up as he left the bathroom. "Want to come make sweet love to me, Scotty?'" He asked as he passed his friend on the way to the stairs. Scott laughed. "Gross, man," he replied as he followed Stiles upstairs. Stiles entered his bedroom and immediately flopped down on the floor. Scott didn't question his friend's antics. With Stiles, he had learned it was better just to let the teen do what he wanted. He stepped over Stiles' prostrated form and settled into Stiles' desk chair.

"You're sure you're okay?" Scott asked. Stiles turned his head sideways and rotated his eyes to look up at the wolf. "Never better," he said flatly. Scott hung his head and sat forward in the chair. "Stiles, I'm sorry that –"

"Oh my god, please don't!" Stiles interrupted vehemently. He rolled over and pushed himself into a sitting position. "Don't apologize for anything. None of it is on you. If anyone's apologizing, it should be me," he stated seriously.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Scott pointed out. Stiles squinted up at his friend. "Scott, I shot you. In the arm. With a _freaking gun_. Or did you forget?"

Scott shook his head. "You didn't have control over it, Stiles. It wasn't your fault."

Stiles laughed harshly. "Control or not, I shot you. There's no excuse for that."

Scott abruptly pushed himself out of the chair and stood at his full height. He stretched out a hand to Stiles and pulled him up off the floor. "Look," he instructed firmly. He quickly shed his jacket and rolled up the sleeve on his left arm to expose his bicep. The skin were the bullet had entered was completely smooth. It was as if Scott had never been shot. Once he was sure that Stiles had completely accepted what he was seeing, he rolled the sleeve back down. "It's all healed. I don't even feel it anymore," he assured Stiles. Stiles looked at Scott with guilt-filled eyes. "Don't apologize," Scott told him with a smile. Stiles sighed heavily and nodded. Even if he wanted to apologize, which he did, he couldn't now.

"Yeah, okay," he agreed. Scott's smile grew at his friend's response. "Lydia promised to come over to my place and help me study later," he said, changing the subject. "You could, if you're feeling up to it, tag along and we can watch movies all night instead."

Stiles squinted at the wolf. "Oh my god. You are such a girl," he criticized. Then, after a beat of silence, he said, "I get to pick the movie."

Scott rolled his eyes. "Fine," he acquiesced. Stiles patted Scott's shoulder solidly before he turned toward his closet. "I need to change first," he announced. Scott smirked. "And I thought you said I was the girl."

Stiles waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder as he opened the closet door. He pulled out one of his many t-shirts and a pair of dark wash jeans. Without a thought, he pulled his sweatshirt up and over his head and prepared to slip on the shirt he had chosen.

But before he could get the shirt over his head, there was a sharp inhale of breath behind him.

"Stiles, what is that?"

 _Crap._

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Thanks for reading! Drop me a review and let me know what you thought! All the love and mint gum!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**. IF YOU ARE READING THIS I AM SO GLAD YOU ARE HERE I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT YOU STILL WANT TO READ THIS AFTER WHAT A HORRIBLE PERSON I'VE BEEN TO YOU ALL I BASICALLY TREATED YOU ALL LIKE CRAP SO THANKS FOR STICKING WITH ME THROUGH THE WAIT THIS CHAPTER WAS WRITTEN OUT OF PROCRASTINATION SO SORRY IF IT'S NOT UP TO PAR. ALSO CONSIDER THIS A CHRISTMAS PRESENT IF I DON'T GET AROUND TO WRITING ANOTHER CHAPPIE BEFORE THEN. ONLY 10 DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS FOLKS. WHOO!

 **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing! I make no profit off of this. This is solely for my enjoyment and hopefully for the enjoyment of others! ;)

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"Stiles, what is that?"

 _Crap._

Stiles twisted around until his back was no longer facing Scott. He donned the shirt he was holding as fast as his he could without pulling at the wounds on his back and turned pleading eyes on his friend. "You can't say anything," he said in a low voice. "Scott, please don't say anything," he practically begged.

A torrid of emotions flashed across Scott's face. He felt anger, worry, hatred, and sorrow all fighting to be loosed all at once. "Stiles, I can't not say anything! Your back's a mess! You need to –"

Stiles frantically shook his head and cut Scott off as he said, "The only thing I need is for you to not say anything about what you just saw."

"Stiles, I can't –"

Stiles quickly crossed the room and gripped his friend by the shoulders. "Scott, listen to me: you cannot tell anyone about this, especially not my dad. All of what you saw was done as an underhanded jab at my dad. If he finds out about it…" Stiles' dropped his hands from the wolf's shoulders and ran them through his hair, causing it to become crazier than normal.

Scott could see the pain in his friend's eyes. Scott wanted nothing more than to agree to Stiles' appeal, but Sheriff Stilinski needed to know.

"All right, I won't tell anybody." Scott hated lying to his friend but it was necessary. Stiles looked up from the floor. His seemed lightly shocked that Scott had agreed so quickly.

"Thank you," Stiles said sincerely. Scott gave him a reassuring smile. "Will you at least let me look at it?" He asked hopefully. He saw Stiles' shoulders tense momentarily and a panicky looked flashed across his face. Scott immediately held up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Okay, okay. You don't have to show me," he said gently, "I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

Stiles shook his head jerkily. "No. No, it's okay. I'll show you," he said as he grabbed the edges of his shirt. "You just gotta promise that you won't use your wolf magic on me."

Scott raised an eyebrow in confusion until he realized that Stiles meant the werewolf's ability to draw out pain. Putting two and two together, he then realized that Stiles' comment meant that he was in pain.

Stiles slowly pulled the shirt up and over his head so as not to aggravate his wounds. The fall off his bed this morning had reopened some of the cuts. They weren't major ones but they still stung.

Once Stiles had the shirt all the way off, he turned so that his back faced Scott. Neither of the boys moved for a few moments. Then suddenly, Stiles felt the brush of fingertips on his right shoulder. He flinched at the unexpected touch.

"Sorry," Scott apologized. Stiles took in a deep breath and willed himself to be still. He felt Scott's finger trace the lettering engraved in his shoulder.

"He wrote his name in your skin?" Scott disgusted voice came. A muscle worked in Stiles's jaw but didn't say anything. Scott pulled his hand away from his friend's shoulder and took in every bruise, burn, and line that now marked Stiles' skin.

He was horrified at what had been done to Stiles but he was angry at himself for not preventing it. If he had just found Stiles sooner maybe he could've spared Stiles the pain he was obviously in. If he had just taken Stiles home that night and made sure he got to the station safely maybe none of this would have happened.

Unable to help himself, Scott grabbed ahold of Stiles' bicep and, going against his friends' wishes, drew away as much pain as he could.

As soon as Stiles felt the hand on his arm he knew exactly what his friend was doing. He twisted around and tried to yank his arm out of Scott's grasp. "Scott, no! Let go!" No matter how much he pulled and twisted, Scott's grasp never loosened.

Stiles' hated himself for thinking it, but the feeling of some of his pain being leeched away was blissful. But no matter how good it felt, Scott needed to let go. Knowing that Scott wasn't going to respond to yelling, Stiles lowered his voice to a near whisper and said, "Scott, you gotta let go. Please let go."

Scott released Stiles' arm and stepped back. "I'm sorry. I had to," Scott apologized but his voice left no suggestion that he felt regret at all.

Stiles simply grabbed his shirt and put it back on. After he redressed, he walked over to his bed and sat down on the edge. He propped his elbows on his knees started fidgeting with his fingers in the nervous way he was wont to do.

Scott stood in place for a moment longer before joining Stiles on the bed. He sat far enough away from Stiles so that he wouldn't feel cornered but close enough to him to let him know that he was there if he needed him.

The two didn't say anything for a while. They just sat in companionable silence. Stiles was the first to speak.

"It was on my way to the station," he said quietly. Scott was confused for a moment before he grasped that Stiles was telling him about the night he was kidnapped.

"I made it halfway before my stupid concussion started acting up. I couldn't see straight; my vision kept going dark," Stiles said as he continued to fidget with his fingers. "I stopped for a moment, which, you know, turned out to be a bad idea. I remember him appearing out of no where and asking me if I was okay. I had backed away from him, but, you know me, I tripped over my own feet. I fell and he tried to help me up. I didn't let him but then he kind of commanded me to so I had to.

He pulled me off balance so I stumbled closer to him. He drugged me. The last thing I remember is him saying something about 'home', but when I came to, I was chained to some chair. And not with handcuffs. No, they were honest to god manacles. And there was this awful beeping noise that went off every fifteen seconds. I can still hear it…" Stiles scratched at his temple idly.

"Whenever the basement door opened, there was this low buzzing noise. The first time Cullen came into the room I remember being scared by that sound."

Scott was proud of Stiles. He knew it took a lot for the teen to admit that something scared him.

"He told me this story of how he dated my mom before my dad did. He said that on the night he went to propose to her, she broke up with him so she could be with Dad." Stiles's leg had started to bounce, making the bed shake with the movement.

"Apparently, he got stoned that night and tried to murder my dad. But, you already know that that didn't work. Cullen held it against my dad that he married Cullen's first love. He said that if my dad hadn't married my mom that she would still be alive." Stiles paused and swallowed thickly.

"Do you believe that?" Scott asked gently. Stiles laughed softly. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe. It's possible. Right?" His eyes darted over to Scott, not really looking for confirmation, but instead just looking for his friend's steady presence.

"He left and came back within in hour, this time with two men. That was when he carved his name in my shoulder." Stiles unconsciously reached a hand up to the shoulder that was harboring the name.

"Do you know what he called it?" Stiles stared down at his knees. "He called it a brand," he almost spat. "He said that I was his property. That I was his shiny new toy." Stiles closed his eyes and hung his head forward. He took a deep breath before he continued, "He gave me a set of rules to follow and if I somehow managed to break them, there were consequences."

Scott had to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep himself grounded. He was so close to going down to the station and ripping out Cedars' throat. And that was saying something, seeing as Scott was against killing anyone. But for what that man had done to his friend, he deserved nothing less than death.

"He chained me up to the ceiling. That's how I got these." Stiles brandished his wrists, which were covered in scabs all the way around. "They didn't let me down until the day my dad searched the house." He paused and looked up, a confused expression covering his face. "What day was that? What day is it now?"

"He called your dad on Wednesday. It's Thursday now," Scott supplied. Stiles raised his eyebrows. He didn't realize that everything happened in the course of only a few hours.

"Huh," he said thoughtfully. "Interesting… It was after they strung me up that they gave me these." Stiles lifted the hem of his shirt and pointed at the row of burns on his lower back.

"Those hurt like hell. Have you ever smelled burning flesh? It doesn't smell too good. Anyways, an hour later I was given these bad boys." Stiles hefted the hemline higher so Scott could have a clear view of the whip marks. "He gave me forty five of these bad boys. They didn't all break the skin but they hurt like hell too."

Scott frowned at the nonchalant tone Stiles' was adopting. He knew the tactic his friend was using. It was the 'make-it-a-joke-so-it-hurts-less' trick. Scott hated when Stiles slipped into that mindset. Once he did, it could take a while to get him out of it. "Stiles, don't–"

"I got more than forty five though. I was supposed to be counting and I almost passed out when I reached thirty-six. He made me start over then. I made it to twelve before I actually passed out. I had to start over again but eventually I made it to forty-five."

Scott felt his stomach starting to turn. Who could do that to someone?

"I passed out again after that. I don't know how long I was out before he came back for the next 'lesson' as he called them. This lesson involved what felt like a tire iron. I'm pretty sure I have a couple broken ribs. No, I'm more than pretty sure. I'm like 95% sure."

Scott's jaw dropped. "What the hell are we still doing here then?" He almost yelled. "You need to go to the hospital! Have you told your dad about this? Of course you haven't. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here with me yelling at you for not going to a hospital!"

"Shhh!" Stiles hushed harshly. "Would you keep it down? I'll go later, dude."

"Stiles –" Scott tried to complain but Stiles cut him off. "Later," he said firmly. Scott held Stiles' glare for a moment before sighing and letting the matter drop.

"Fine, later. Go on," he said.

"Well, after that there was a Simon Says game where I got electrocuted. That's why my neck looks so funky."

Indeed, Stiles' neck did look funky. It was more than funky; it was disturbing. Some of the skin was shiny and raised from where he had been electrocuted from the collar.

"Oh oops. I left out the part where I practically had a seizure," he said offhandedly.

Scott's eyebrows skyrocketed. "You what?!"

Stiles sighed heavily. "Do you remember that test we ran in Derek's loft? Of course you do; that was like two day ago. You remember what happens with conflicting commands? Well that same result basically happened just on a more extreme scale. I guess it sent my body into some kind of shock which caused a seizure like effect."

He paused to take a breath, "Anyways, you know the rest. Dad searched the house, he leaves, gets a phone call from Cullen, and so on and so on. Any questions?" He asked as if he had just finished doing a presentation in English class instead of revealing his torture story.

"Stiles, why are you doing that?" Scott asked. Stiles made a face. "Doing what?"

Scott scoffed. "You're acting like you're reading me a grocery list instead of telling me all the horrible things you had done to you. I know what you're doing. I just want to know why," he said with concern.

Stiles looked down at his lap and blinked furiously. "I'm doing it because, right now, it's the only thing that's working," he admitted quietly. "If I act like it's nothing, then that's what it becomes: nothing. You know me," he joked, "always ignoring the problem until it goes away."

Scott frowned. "You can't ignore this, Stiles," he said sympathetically. "I appreciate you telling me what happened, but you can't just brush it under the rug and pretend it's not there."

Stiles sighed. "I'm not ignoring it. I'm just trying to make it less of a big deal."

Scott pursed his lips. "So what does that make it?" Stiles looked up from his lap and squinted. "A – A small deal?"

Scott blinked blankly at his friend. "I think your dad deserves to hear all of this."

"Scott, you promised –"

Scott held up his hands. "Hear me out, dude! Think about it: how would your dad feel if you never told about any of this and for years he thought you came out of this unscathed. Then one day, he sees all the scars and the name on your shoulder. Do you know how awful it would make him feel knowing that you had been hurt and that he never saw it or did anything about it? I'm not trying to guilt trip you or make you do something you're not ready to do, but don't you think he deserves to know?"

Stiles raked his hands through his hair and pulled in a shaky breath.

"I know that he deserves to know," came Stiles' guilty reply. " I just don't think I can tell him. Not yet." He added the last part in an almost whisper.

Doing his best not to startle his friend, Scott gingerly placed a hand on Stiles' shoulder and, when Stiles looked over at him, gave him an encouraging nod.

"Wanna go see Lydia?" The werewolf suggested, knowing he needed to lighten the mood. Stiles quickly pushed off the bed and stated with gusto, "Hell yeah I wanna see Lydia! I'll drive."

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Lydia forcefully swung open the front door of her house and glared at the two hooligans standing right outside.

"I was in the middle of a perfectly good dutch braid and now I'll have to start it all over again. There had better be a good reason why you interrupted me."

Scott and Stiles both looked at the partially braided section of Lydia's red tresses and frowned slightly.

"I think you're hair looks beautiful, Lydia," Stiles said chipperly. Lydia rolled her eyes at the teen. "I'm 99.99% sure you always think that." She stepped aside to grant the boys passage into her house.

"Scott, didn't I tell you that I was going to come over to _your_ house?" She tossed over her shoulder as she led her company into the living room.

Scott nodded. "You did. But Stiles and I were already out so…"

Turning around to face the boys, Lydia reached her hands up and started to undo the half-done braid. "Did you bring your stuff with you?" She asked Scott and laughed internally as the werewolf's face took on a slight red tinge. "Well no…" Scott replied bashfully. "We just kind of came by to see you."

Lydia smiled. "That's sweet of you." She shook our her hair after she had finished undoing the partial braid. "Do you want to sit down?" She offered her friends and gestured to the large plush couch as she herself perched on the arm of a chair. Scott dropped down onto the couch and sank back into its soft exterior. Stiles longed to do the same but instead chose to sit on the lip of the couch, keeping his back away from the cushions. Simply sitting tugged painfully at some of the wounds on his back. There was no need to aggravate them more by pressing them into the sofa.

Lydia took note of Stiles' stance but didn't say anything. She had learned that the best way for Stiles to get through certain situations was to simply ignore his behavior (unless it was harmful) and to let him deal with it in his own way. Lydia was always very careful to make sure that Stiles knew she was there if he needed her, but she knew when to leave well enough alone.

"So are you guys planning on sitting here and staring at me all day or are we going to do something?" Lydia asked lightly. Stiles listlessly scratched at his nose but didn't say anything.

Scott hummed softly under his breath and stared up at the ceiling, also not giving a response. Lydia rolled her eyes. _'These two…'_

She huffed sharply. "Well since it happens to be that we are all skipping school today, why don't we watch a movie? Hm?" She looked at her friends, waiting for an answer. Stiles and Scott exchanged a look.

"Weren't we going to do that?" Scott asked confusedly. Stiles frowned. "Oh yeah," he agreed. "We were. No time like the present," he cheerfully directed to Lydia. Lydia smiled before pushing herself off the chair. She crossed the room and stopped in front of a tall cabinet next to the television. The cabinet was filled with dvds, all organized alphabetically.

"I'm picking," Lydia declared eliciting groans of disagreement from both Scott and Stiles. Letting Lydia be in charge of the movie meant that they were probably going to end up watching a chick flick.

Lydia studied the rows of movies for a moment before gasping and pulling one from the second to last shelf. She whirled around excitedly and displayed her choice.

" _The Proposal_?" Stiles read. Scott laughed. "My mom loves that movie. She's made me watch it with her every time she watches it. I think I've seen it at least 30 times."

"Then this will be the 31st," Lydia piped. She popped the disc into the player and switched on the tv. "Scoot over," she said as she wedged herself onto the couch in between her friends. Scott didn't have to move as he was already sitting in the corner. Stiles shifted to be closer to the opposite corner but still avoided leaning back.

"Hand me the remote from that table please, Stiles," she said as she pointed to the side table near Stiles' end of the couch. Stiles had snatched up the remote and handed it to Lydia before he could even register what he was doing.

Ah, yes. How could he forget about the stupid freaking curse?

Stiles sighed and trained his focus on the movie. They were almost all the way through when Stiles felt his phone vibrate in his pants pocket.

 _Bzz Bzz._

He jumped and felt his heart stutter. ' _No no no.'_

 _Bzz Bzz._

He felt it again. Hand shaking, he reached into his pocket and drew out his phone. He was about to turn it on to see what notification has caused the buzzing when it suddenly buzzed again. Stiles hand jerked and the phone slipped out of his hand, landing on the floor with a solid 'thud'. Scott and Lydia's heads turned at the noise. They both frowned as they took in Stiles' tense posture accompanied by his shaking hands.

"Stiles?" Lydia asked softly. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Stiles didn't answer. He simply stared in terror down at the dropped device. "I–I–I don't –"

Completely forgoing her own rules, Lydia decided to get involved. She gently placed a hand over one of Stiles' trembling ones. Bad decision. Stiles immediately reacted by shooting off the couch and crossing to the other side of the room within a few seconds.

"Don't!" He shouted, clearly spooked. Lydia quickly raised her hands in a placating gesture; now she herself was scared. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry," she said benevolently. She scooted off the couch and crouched down to retrieve Stiles' phone.

"Talk to us, Stiles," Scott said as he pushed himself up and off the couch. Stiles buried his fingers in his wild hair. "Make it stop buzzing," he replied obediently. Scott frowned at his answer. He looked at Lydia quizzically. Lydia looked just as confused as Scott felt. Why would the cell phone's vibrations garner such a response from Stiles?

"Why do you – oh." It hit Scott like a train. Stiles had said it earlier. _"Whenever the basement door opened, there was this low buzzing noise. The first time Cullen came into the room I remember being scared by that sound."_

The buzz that Stiles had heard must've closely resembled that of the buzz coming from his phone. "Lydia, turn it off," he said quietly. Lydia didn't question him and quickly switched off the vibrate setting on Stiles' phone.

"There," she said. "Done. No more vibrating, okay?" She proffered the phone to Stiles. The still shaking teen inhaled deeply before stepping forward and accepting the phone from her hand.

"Sorry, I just… sorry," he finished quietly. Lydia shook her head. "It's fine," she reassured. "Your dad texted you," she said to gloss over the freak out. Stiles nodded, not making eye contact with either of his friends.

He opened the messages from his dad and read them silently. After a moment, he switched off the phone and shoved it back in his pocket.

"Everything okay?" Scott asked. Stiles nodded again.

"Yeah yeah. Everything's fine," he sighed. "They want to bring me in for questioning."

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Thanks for reading! Drop me a review and let me know what you thought! All the love and hot chocolate!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Guess who's back and better than ever? Sorry I left you all hanging, but I'm back now! At least for a couple weeks… ;D Here's the next installment in the series!

Thank you guys for your support! You know the drill: if there is anything you guys would like to see in the future, drop a comment or PM me!

 **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing! I make no profit off of this. This is solely for my enjoyment and hopefully for the enjoyment of others! ;)

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Stiles dropped his head onto his arms, which were folded on the table. He exhaled shakily and bounced his leg as he waited in nervous anticipation for the doors to the interrogation room to open and an officer to come barging in, accusing Stiles of getting kidnapped, telling him that he deserved what he got.

The rational part of Stiles' mind fussed at him, telling him that that wasn't going to happen. The only reason he was in the interrogation room was because it was deemed as the most private area for questioning. Stiles knew that the officers weren't going to accuse him of anything. They just wanted answers and information.

Stiles exhaled again, trying to force out as much irrational anxiety as he could. Just as he was beginning to calm himself down, he heard the familiar click of a door handle being turned and immediately his anxiety came rushing back.

He sat up quickly, wincing as his back protested at the force of the motion. He unfolded his arms and removed them from the table, placing them instead by his sides, his hands in his lap. He kept his eyes down as an officer stepped around to the opposite of the table and dropped a manilla envelope onto the surface of the sterile steel table.

"How are you, son? I'm Deputy Medina," came an adenoidal voice.

Stiles slowly raised his eyes to look at the deputy who had just taken a seat across from him. Stiles knew Deputy Medina by name but he had never talked to the guy. Going off of all the disgusted comments his dad made about him, Stiles had never _wanted_ to talk to the guy. Sheriff Stilinski always talked about how he wished he could get rid of the guy but wouldn't because he was such a valuable addition to the squad. Stiles had asked his dad why he hated Medina so much. The response he received was, "Well because he…. It's because…. Well I just… I just _do_ , Stiles."

Good answer.

"Have you ever been questioned before, son?" Medina drawled. Stiles blinked at the officer before dropping his eyes back down to the shiny tabletop. "Uh, yeah. Once or twice," he mumbled.

"Okay. Well let me just review the process for you, okay?" The deputy leaned back in his chair and made good on his word. "What I'm going to do is – I'm going to ask you a few questions and you must answer truthfully, okay? If you don't answer truthfully, we may not be able to get Mr. Cedars convicted in court. Okay?" Medina paused to drag in a heavy breath.

Stiles sucked in a breath of his own. Medina didn't know it, but he had just given Stiles a direct command.

"If you feel like you aren't ready to answer any of the questions, just tell me and we can come back to it at another point, okay?"

Stiles furrowed his brow. It was starting to irritate the teen how slow Medina was speaking and how he tacked on "okay?" to the end of every sentence, as if Stiles was some little kid who didn't understand English.

"I just want you to know that you're safe, okay? Mr. Cedars is not going to hear anything you say, okay? You're absolutely safe, okay?"

Stiles closed his eyes and huffed through his nose. Medina didn't believe a single freaking word coming out of his own mouth.

"Mmhm," Stiles hummed to shut the Deputy up.

"Feel free to ask me any questions you have at any time, okay?"

"I have a question right now actually," Stiles blurted looking up at Medina. Medina looked up from the open file to give Stiles his full attention.

"Yes?"

"Is there anyone else who can do the questioning? Like my dad maybe? Or Carnaghi? Or Parrish? I'd take Parrish right now…"

Medina's eyes narrowed slightly. "Let's begin, Mr. Stilinski. Can you please tell me–"

"You know what? I'm going to tell you something, Officer," Stiles interrupted loudly. "Can I tell you something? I'm going to tell you something."

Stiles felt panic brewing in his gut. He knew that his dad was probably listening right outside the door, to hell with privacy policies. As soon as Medina started asking questions, Stiles wasn't going to have a choice but to spill any and every detail asked for which meant that his dad would find out everything that had been done to him. And Stiles was not ready for that; not yet.

"When I was little – like maybe 5 or 6 – I used to hate socks and I mean hate them. I always got mad when my parents forced me to wear them because they made my feet all sweaty and then when I took them off I always had toe jam between each and every one of my toes and I was so angry that I had to clean my toes twice in one day – once to get the toe jam out and then a second time when I took a bath. But it wasn't just that I had toe jam: it was that the socks made my feet super smelly like all the foot juice just got trapped and it didn't have anywhere to go but back into my foot but skin doesn't work like that so the foot juice just kinda laid on my feet until I could take my socks off but then the foot juice was super smelly so people would always tell me to put my socks back on but I didn't want to because they were the reason my feet were smelly in the first place." Stiles heaved in a giant breath.

Medina blinked glazed eyes.

"And that's the story of why I never wanted to wear socks as a kid," Stiles concluded, nodding slowly.

"That was…enthralling," the Deputy managed after a minute. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get on with the questioning?"

Stiles nodded hurriedly. "Yeah yeah, of course. Go on."

Medina nodded in return before picking up his pen in preparation to take notes. "Tell me about – "

" – my dad's cooking? Whoo man that's a story. Well it was before my mom–"

The Deputy dropped his pen onto the table and fixed Stiles with an annoyed adult look that Stiles knew all to well. "Son, I understand that this was a traumatic event for you, okay? But the sooner we get through these questions, the sooner you never have to talk about it again, okay?"

Stiles shut his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. "Mmhm," he replied through closed lips. Medina reclaimed his pen once again. "Okay then," he sighed. "Are you done stalling?"

Stiles pressed a fist to his mouth. "Mmhm," he repeated, the sound even more muffled by his hand.

"Good," the officer huffed exasperatedly. "Now, tell me what happened the night you were taken."

Stiles dropped his fist from his mouth so that he could reply clearly. "I was on my way to the police station to bring my dad some food. I was late because I had been hanging out with some of my friends earlier and lost track of time. I had to walk to the station because I wasn't allowed to drive, concussion and all." Stiles wasn't in control of what was coming out of his mouth. As soon as Deputy Medina had given the command, out came the words from Stiles' mouth.

"Anyways I was walking and I think I blacked out because the next thing I remember was Cullen coming at me, asking me if I was okay. I was like "Whoa, stranger danger," and all that so I told him I was fine but he didn't leave. Last thing I remember from that night is that he drugged me, I don't know what it was but it worked fast."

Stiles stopped talking, the command fulfilled. The deputy was quiet for a moment as he worked on short handing Stiles' answer.

"You said you had a concussion?" Medina clarified. Stiles nodded. "Yeah. It was from a fight I had gotten into with Cullen's kid at school," he responded bitterly. He hadn't wanted to fight but he hadn't exactly had a choice in the matter.

"You go to school with Mr. Cedars' son?" Medina looked up from his notes, interest displayed across his face. "What's his name?"

"Lucas, but everyone calls him Luke," Stiles answered immediately. "Spit and image of his dad; you can't miss 'im," he said with false cheer. He watched as Medina make a quick record of the name. Stiles felt panic in his gut bubbling up into his stomach, making him thankful that he hadn't eaten anything in a while because he was sure that if he had, he would be throwing it up right now. He knew the exactly next question Medina was going to ask.

He needed to leave. He wanted out of the tiny room with the blaring fluorescent lights that hurt his head. He wanted away from the officer who was going to unknowingly force him to confess everything to his father, who Stiles just _knew_ was waiting behind that door. Stiles needed to get out; he needed to get away before his dad found out.

"Um, Mr. Deputy, sir? I need to use the restroom," Stiles stated softly, afraid to raise his voice any higher for fear that it would break and crack like a pre-teen boy.

"Mr. Stilinski, we are almost done with the session. If you could just answer a few more questions?" Medina was picking up on the teen's anxiety but he knew that he needed to get answers. Chances were that the teen didn't actually have to use the restroom. He probably just wanted to escape. 'What did Cedars do to this kid?' Medina thought to himself. 'He didn't even have him for a full 24 hours.'

"No, you don't understand," Stiles responded. "I really need to use the restroom." His lungs were starting to constrict, a tell-tale sign that a panic attack was coming on. 'No no no,' he begged internally. 'Not here, not now. This is not the time to spaz out.'

"Just answer these last few questions and I promise you that that bathroom is all yours, okay? Now what happened–"

Stiles shoved his chair back from the table as an overpowering ringing started in his ears. He clutched his ears in agony as the ringing became more and more shrill with each passing second. He stumbled to his feet, glassy eyes not focusing on anything. As his eyes darted around the room, searching for the door he swore was there a moment ago, they passed over an unamused looking Medina.

Stiles saw Medina's lips moving but he couldn't hear the man over the unabating tone in his head. " Let me out," he mumbled, unable to hear even his own voice clearly. Medina stood up from his chair and reached out a hand to and unsteady Stiles.

The teen jerked backwards, a cry of "No!" jumping from his mouth. "Let me out!" Came the scream of hysteria. Even before the words had fully left his mouth the door was thrown open and two pairs of hands seized him, one pair on his right arm and the other on his left.

"Let me go!" He screamed as the two officers tried to restrain him. Some conscious part of Stiles' mind told him that screaming and struggling wasn't going to get him released. "Let me go," he pleaded in what he thought was a normal tone of voice. "Please, please… just let go."

He let his arms go limp and dropped his head forward, squeezing his eyes shut tight as the world also tipped forward. "Let me go," he gasped as air refused to be pulled into his lungs. "Please…"

Stiles wasn't sure if it was his desperate pleading or someone's command that caused the officers to relinquish their hold, but suddenly the firm hands on his arms vanished and Stiles bolted for the door.

He disregarded the fact that somehow the door had been magically opened and instead focused on escaping the enclosed room.

Distorted faces flashed across his blurred vision (was he crying?) as he scrambled to find the exit out of the building. He knew this station inside and out. He practically grew up around that place. But for some reason he just couldn't seem to remember where the door was.

He flinched sharply and jerked away as an unseen hand gripped his shoulder. He recoiled as he stumbled in to desk and felt another hand grab his wrist to pull him upright. But the hand wrapped right around the raw skin left behind from the iron manacles Cullen had used. Stiles yelped as he felt nails unknowingly dig in to tender skin. He wrenched his wrist out of the person's grip and bolted – on instinct – down the hallway to his left.

He lost count of how many officers tried to catch him as he fled towards what he hoped was the exit. After what seemed like an eternity, Stiles felt the unforgettable feeling of sunshine on his face and cool October air stinging his eyes.

But even that wasn't enough to snap Stiles out of his craze. He didn't just need to be outside, he needed to be home.

Home.

Where was home?

Stiles wheezed as shallow breaths barely put in a dent in his starving lungs. He looked frantically down the street, hoping to see something – anything – familiar. A street sign, a house, a landmark, something to orient him.

Why didn't he know where he was? This was Beacon Hills; he had lived here his entire life. Not one moment of his existence had been spent outside of Beacon Hills.

With his mind still not thinking rationally, Stiles rushed forward into the street, desperately needing to find his way home. He needed to find his way home so he could find his dad. His dad would be at home. He had to be. Stiles needed him to be at home.

A car horn blared loud enough that it cut right through the persistent ringing in Stiles' head. And suddenly, Stiles saw everything with perfect clarity. The cars speeding past, the angry drivers laying into their horns, the blinding light that reflected off of the shiny hoods of the cars.

Stiles gasped as car after car zoomed by, narrowly missing him each time. He needed to get out of the street. He needed to get home to his dad.

It seemed that every time Stiles turned around, there was another car waiting to plow him over. Stiles didn't think it was possible, but his panic kicked up yet another notch.

"No no no no no…" he mumbled to himself. "Have to get home. I have to get home."

Just as he was feeling that he was never going to make it out of the busy intersection, he suddenly found himself standing on the sidewalk. He also found a face directly in front of his. The face was riddled with wild anger and but the blazing green eyes housed poorly veiled concern. Stiles was so shocked by the sudden change in scenery that whatever breath he had left momentarily evaporated from his lungs.

"What the hell were you doing?" A voice shouted at him. "Do you have a death wish? Or are you just that stupid?"

Stiles opened his mouth to respond but no words came forth. It was as if they were stuck in his throat.

Muscular hands gripped his shoulders and gave the unresponsive teen a firm shake. "Breathe! Breathe, Stiles!"

Stiles gasped and brisk autumn air filled his lungs. His brain finally supplied a name to the face in front of him.

"Derek, I need to – you need to – please just – I-I-I can't–" Stiles stammered.

Derek looked at the teen in front of him, really looked. Stiles' skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat. He was shaking in the way that a cowering animal does and his eyes were darting left and right, going a mile a minute. He was breathing hard, as if he had just completed a triathlon. Derek put two and two together and came up with four: panic attack.

He knew that Stiles got them from time to time but Derek had never been around to witness one. He didn't exactly know what to do. Was he supposed to get him to sit down? Was he supposed to get Stiles to slow his breathing and explain what happened? Was he supposed to give him a hug? Oh lord, Derek hoped he didn't have to give him a hug.

The one thing that Derek did know was that Stiles needed to slow his breathing. If he went on hyperventilating he was eventually going to pass out.

The alpha wolf steadied Stiles' head between his hands and growled, in his most commanding voice, "You need to calm down right now."

Stiles' wide, mania filled eyes stared right into Derek's. "Focus on your breathing," Derek instructed calmly. "Unless you want to pass out, you need to slow it down." The wolf breathed a sigh of relief as Stiles acted on Derek's command.

"That's it, Stiles," he said encouragingly. "Match my breathing; nice and slow." Derek purposely slowed down his own breathing for Stiles to match.

After a minute or two of simply focusing on breathing, Derek noticed that Stiles wasn't heaving for air anymore. Stiles' hands had stopped shaking and his eyes were no longer darting around like a cornered animal looking for a way out.

"Better?" Derek asked tentatively, searching the teen's eyes for a sign that his sanity was back in place, if only momentarily. Stiles nodded jerkily. "Yeah, I'm fine," he answered, monotone. Derek raised an eyebrow. Convincing.

"You want to explain why you suddenly decided to have a party in the street?" Derek asked. Stiles blinked up at the wolf. Derek may still be young and he may not have kids, but hell if he wasn't acting like a dad right then.

"Hey, um, Derek?"

Derek's eyebrow climbed higher towards his hairline.

"Why are your hands still on my face?" Stiles inquired innocently. Derek frowned. His hands were still, in fact, pressed against each side of Stiles' face. He nonchalantly released Stiles' head and dropped his hands to his side.

"Street. You. Why," he deadpanned. Stiles found a sudden interest in his shoe laces. Had they always been that particular shade of cream or were they just dirty?

"Stiles!" Derek barked impatiently, taking a step towards the unresponsive teenager. Stiles backed up a step out of reflex. He knew Derek wasn't actually angry but that wouldn't stop the bad-tempered wolf from resorting to violence to get an answer.

"What are _you_ doing here, Derek?" Stiles retaliated. Derek glowered at the deflecting teen. A low growl bubbled in his throat.

"No no! I'm genuinely curious!" Stiles yelped. "Why are you here? There is no way you just happened to be passing through this area."

Derek stared hard at Stiles. Why did that boy always have to overanalyze everything? Derek opened his mouth to say just that when he was interrupted by the sheriff.

"Stiles!"

The two men turned to see Sheriff Stilinski jogging over to where they were standing on the sidewalk. As he neared, Stiles could see his dad's ever present frown shrouding his face.

"Hey, Dad!" Stiles piped, thankful for his dad's perfectly timed intervention. "What are you guys doing out here?" John asked as he came to stop in front of them.

Derek whipped his head to the side and gave Stiles a look and a smirk that screamed "A-ha!" Stiles was so tempted to stick his tongue out at him. So tempted…

"Sourwolf," he muttered instead. John raised an eyebrow at the werewolf.

"Stiles, aren't you supposed to be inside with Medina?"

Stiles screwed up his eyes and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Dad, do you remember that time I asked you why you didn't like Medina? And you just said it was because you just did?" He asked, keeping his hand over his eyes.

The Sheriff blinked quickly twice. "I vaguely remember something like that, yes."

Stiles dropped his hand and looked up at his father with tired eyes. "I just don't like him, dad. I just don't."

There was something in Stiles's voice that tipped the Sheriff and Derek off that something hadn't gone right between Stiles and Medina.

Stilinski sighed heavily and placed an arm around his son's shoulders. "Maybe it would be best if you went home?"

Stiles nodded as he fumbled for his car keys which he had stuffed in his pocket. "Yeah, you're probably right." He had only just managed to pull his keys out of his pocket before they dropped from his fingers and fell to the ground. Stiles huffed and dropped into a crouch to pick them up.

It was only after he had picked up his keys and heard the sporadic jingling did he discover that his hands were still shaking. He closed his eyes and tried to still his hands by sheer force of will.

And suddenly, the sound stopped. He opened his eyes, startled, and almost fell over backwards. At some point Derek had crouched down in front of Stiles and had latched onto the boy's keys.

Stiles released the keys and stood up quickly. "Don't…" he pointed a trembling finger down at the wolf, " don't do that."

Derek rolled his eyes and rose from his crouch. "I think it might be better if I drove."

"Hey, I can – "

"I think that's a good idea."

Stiles swiveled his head to shoot his dad an accusing glare. "You do realize who you're condemning me to be trapped in close quarters with? You do know this guy right?" Stiles jabbed his finger at the wolf again. "Derek Hale? The angriest, most explosive, most volatile, most – "

 _*growl*_

" – caring, devoted guy Beacon Hills has ever seen. Have you heard of him, dad? Aw, he's just one swell guy. One swell hell of a guy, this Derek Hale. Yessir–ee Bob! He's just – Ow!"

"Shut up and go get in the car."

Stiles's jaw clamped shut with an audible click of teeth meeting teeth. As he walked away, he glared back at Derek as he rubbed his shoulder where the alpha had clipped him.

Once Stiles was out of earshot, the Sheriff let out a long sigh. "Thank you for taking him home," he said sincerely.

Derek shrugged it off. "I don't trust him to go anywhere by himself right now."

They both watched the shrinking image of Stiles's retreating shape.

"Me neither," whispered the Sheriff.

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Thanks for reading! Drop me a review if you've got the time! All the love and heated blankets!


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I found this one floating around untitled in my files, so please enjoy two chapters in one day!

Thank you guys for your support! You know the drill: if there is anything you guys would like to see in the future, drop a comment or PM me!

 **DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing! I make no profit off of this. This is solely for my enjoyment and hopefully for the enjoyment of others! ;)

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"What do you mean _gone_? How can he be gone? … There were two officers stationed outside that cell; are you telling me that they just let him _walk_ passed? … Are you kidding me? Have you called an ambulance? … Get an APB out on him. He can't have gotten far. … Have you checked the security footage to see which way he went? … No license plate. Of course … I don't want you to _try_ and find him, Medina, I want _to_ find him. _Now!_ "

"What's going on?"

John spun around, alarmed by the sudden sound of his son's voice. Stiles stood in the doorway of his father's home office. His hair looked as though it had been smushed by a pillow and he was wearing pajamas but, if the bags under his eyes were anything to go off of, John would guess that his son hadn't been sleeping.

"It's nothing, Stiles." John laid his phone down on the table and gave him son a masked smile. "Go back to bed. I'm sorry I woke you."

Stiles absently picked at his fingernails. "You didn't." It was almost a whisper.

John hung his head. "No, of course not," he whispered back.

There was silence for a few minutes before Stiles broke it. "It Cedars, isn't it? Cullen Cedars?"

John hated the way Stiles's voice shook when he said the name. John blew out a long slow breath as he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk.

"I don't want you to you worry–"

"Which means that there's a reason _to_ worry. Great."

John rose from his chair quickly and stepped around his desk. "Hey, look at me."

Stiles looked up and met his father's eyes immediately, tracking the older man as he approached. "He's not going to come anywhere near you. I won't let him, I promise," the Sheriff reassured softly.

"You can't promise that," Stiles rejoined. "You know you can't. You don't know what he's planning or what he wants. You don't know what to look out for. You don't know where he is or who's working with him or for him. There's too many unknowns! You can't make that promise because you don't know enough." Stiles paused to draw breath. "You can't promise that," he repeated lamely.

John raised his eyebrows. "Maybe I don't know those things. But I do know one thing: I'll be damned if I let that man get near you again."

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 _*slurp, crunch crunch crunch *_

 _*slurp, crunch crunch crunch*_

 _*sluuuuuuuuuuurp*_

"OH my god! Has anyone ever told you that you are obnoxious eater? Seriously, you should be banned from eating cereal ever again."

Isaac smiled one of his trademark irritating smiles. Stiles groaned and slouched down in his chair, sinking so low that he chin rested on his chest and his eyes were level with the table.

He looked down and checked his watch. Stiles only had twelve minutes left with Isaac before the shift change. Stiles groaned and dragged his hands down his face, pulling at his lower lids with his fingertips.

Sheriff Stilinski had made good on his promise on not letting Cedars anywhere near Stiles. Apparently, to him, that meant making sure someone was with Stiles at all times. Last night, Scott had been on watch. He had switched out with Isaac sometime before eight so that he could go to school.

Stiles had been stuck at him with Isaac all day and it was starting to drive him insane. Don't misunderstand, Stiles and Isaac got along just fine. It was just that it was harder to get along on some days than others.

This was one of those days. John had left a list of specific instructions on what to watch out for and what to make sure Stiles did and didn't do.

DO NOT: Leave Stiles alone for any reason (unless he's using the restroom)

DO: Make sure he eats if it's a mealtime.

DO NOT: Let him go outside unless you've checked the area first.

DO: Let him sleep if he so chooses to.

It was making Stiles feel like a friggin' toddler. And he hated it. _Hated_ it.

Stiles stuck out his jaw and blew air upwards into his hair. He jiggled his leg impatiently as Isaac continued to slurp and smack away at his cereal. After what felt like eternity, Stiles heard Isaac drop his spoon into his bowl.

"Thank you lord," he mumbled.

"I think I'll have another bowl."

Stiles's eyes rolled back in his head. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.

"Would you care for some, Stiles? After all, you are supposed to be eating."

Stiles opened his eyes and gave Isaac a dead stare. The Beta across the table simply smirked and pushed back from the table.

"You're enjoying this way too much!" He called to the retreating back of the other teenager. Isaac snorted as he deposited his dishes in the dishwasher. "Well, given that there are plenty of other things I'd rather be doing, and seeing as I'm stuck here with you for another –" he paused to look at the clock "– eight minutes, I thought I'd better enjoy myself."

"No one's holding you hostage here, Isaac," Stiles sighed. "If you wanna go then just go. You know where the door is." Stiles raised his right arm and pointed behind him. Almost immediately after he had done it, he hissed and quickly retracted the limb close to his body.

Isaac frowned. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Stiles slowly pushed himself back upright in his seat. "Nothing's wrong. My arm was asleep, that's all."

Isaac's frown deepened. "You're lying."

"I'm not," Stiles replied plainly, giving the wolf a level stare. Isaac took a step back towards the table. "But you are," he replied just as plainly.

Stiles straightened even more. "Not."

The Beta took another step. "Are."

"Not."

"Are." Step.

" _Not_."

Step. " _Are_."

"Not!"

"Are!"

" ' Are not ' what?"

Stiles started violently at the sudden voice behind him. He jerked forward so fast that his chest hit the table. He gasped at the lightning bolt of pain that shot through chest; it made his head spin.

"Stiles? Stiles! Look at me, kiddo. I need you to look at me."

He felt firm but gentle hands slowly lean him back against the chair. He knew those hands and that voice.

"Melissa?" He panted through gasps. He didn't realize he closed his eyes until Melissa asked him to open them. He blinked his eyes open and was met with the sight of Melissa McCall crouched next to him, clothed in her usual attire of nursing scrubs.

"Right here, Stiles," she smiled. "You doing okay?"

Stiles nodded. And dropped the hand clutching his side. "Yeah, I'm okay," he said. "You just startled me, is all."

Melissa replied with a soft hum. "Mind if I take a look at you chest there? You seem like you might –"

Stiles was out of the chair before Melissa could finish her sentence. She rose to her feet and saw with amazement that Stiles had made it clear to the other side of the kitchen already.

"No no no! It's fine. I'm fine. I've already had it checked it out," Stiles lied quickly. Melissa tilted her head in a way that only mom's can do.

"Oh, really?" She stepped around the table. "Then you won't mind me checking and making sure that everything's healing okay?"

Stiles felt his heartbeat increasing as Mrs. McCall continued to advance. "Y-You don't have to do that," he said in his most nonchalant voice, but he was pretty sure Melissa had caught the catch in his voice.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, Stiles," Melissa said, raising her hands. "I just want to take a look at your ribs and make sure you're okay. I heard all about your fall from the rooftop. I know that can't have been a gentle landing."

"It – I'm fine, I swear." Stiles was backed against a wall of counters and cabinets and yet he was still evading Melissa. He kept sidestepping further and further away from her, all the while promising that he was "fine" and there was "nothing to worry about".

Melissa sighed. She didn't want to force him to do anything he didn't want to do, but she knew that when some wounds go untreated, they can go from bad to worse quickly. John had told her just the other night that Stiles was still refusing to be checked over by anyone.

She took one big step towards and Stiles and stopped dead. He had suddenly disappeared from eye level, and what Melissa saw when she looked down just about broke her heart.

Stiles was crouched with his hands covering his head and head to his knees. It was if he was protecting himself, shielding himself almost.

But from what?

"Oh, Stiles, sweetheart…" Even from above him, Melissa could see the tremors that wracked Stiles's body, but it was only when she crouched down next to him that she heard it: _"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."_

Each repetition of the phrase was emphasized with a sob that tore at Melissa's chest. "Hey, hey, it's okay," she soothed as she moved to sit on the floor, gently pulling the sobbing boy with her until they were sitting side by side.

She kept one hand on his back, stroking soothing circles, and the other she stretched across his chest to his shoulder, keeping him pulled in tight to her chest.

"You're okay. It's okay," she hushed. Melissa kept up a steady stream of calming words until she felt Stiles's sobs reduce to no more than sporadic gasps. She leaned away slightly to look into Stiles's face, but it was covered by hands.

"Stiles, will you look at me please?" She was answered with stilted gasp. Though her knees protested, Melissa forced her body back into a crouch in front of the teen.

Gently grabbing ahold of his wrists, Melissa managed to lower his hands into his lap. She ducked her chin in an attempt to peer into Stiles' downturned eyes.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" She asked as non-accusatory as possible. Stiles dried his eyes in the crook of his elbow.

"I'm sorry, I just–" Another gasp. "–He can't know. He _can't_."

Melissa frowned. "Who, kiddo? Can't know what?"

A sound almost like a whimper came from the back of Stiles's throat. "If I show you, you have to promise. Promise you won't say anything to him." Just when Melissa didn't think her heart could break anymore, Stiles stared up at her with anxious – no, desperate – brown eyes.

Those eyes: usually so full of laughter, excitement, intelligence. All of that reduced to fear and suspicion within a matter of hours.

"Stiles, you know I can't promise that," she said. Stiles sucked in another stuttering breath, his hands flying back up to cover his face. Melissa caught his hands halfway and held them tight, making sure she had the boy's attention. When he looked back up at her, she said, "I can't promise that, but I will do my best."

It went without saying that the "him" Stiles spoke of was his father. But what would Stiles want to hide from his dad?

"No no no…" Stiles shook his head back and forth rapidly. "I can't, I can't, I can't. He can't know. He can't _know_."

Stiles's voice had dropped to a harsh whisper and he felt more tears start cloud his vision.

"I won't, Stiles!"

The words cut through Stiles's panic. "You what?" He choked through the anxiety clawing at his lungs.

"I won't tell him, Stiles. You have my word."

And while, she felt guilt bubbling in her gut for lying to the traumatized teenager in front of her, she knew it was absolutely necessary. Little did she knew, her son had thought the exact same thing yesterday morning.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Sheriff Stilinski removed his keys from the lock before he pushed open the front door as quietly as he could. He only pushed it halfway open, though. For years, there had been one squeaky hinge on that door. Seeing as it always alerted either him or Stiles that someone was entering, John never saw fit to fix it.

Right now, however, he was cursing never getting around to it.

He had only just managed to get the door closed when he suddenly felt a hand grasp his shoulder. Sheriff Stilinski could've sworn his heart would never come back from a scare like that, but that old ticker was stronger than he thought.

Whirling on the spot, he came face to face with an anxious looking Melissa. John sighed and dropped his hand from his belt, where it had instinctively reached for his gun.

"Melissa! You scared the living bejeezus out of me!" He whisper-yelled.

"Shhh!" The woman hushed quickly. "I just got him to go to sleep."

John blinked, nonplussed. "You did? How the hell did you manage that?"

Melissa threw a concerned look down the hallway from whence she just came. "It wasn't easy, I'll tell you that."

"You gotta tell me how–"

"Later," the nurse interrupted. "There's something we need to discuss."

John frowned at the sudden sense of urgency in his friend's voice. "Why? What's wrong? Is it Stiles?"

He watched as Melissa chewed her lip, something she only did when she was nervous. John took a step towards her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You can tell me, Melissa. You know that," he assured. Melissa nodded her head, tossed back one last look down the hallway, and released her lip from its prison.

"That man who took Stiles: Cedars," Melissa paused to look back down the hallway again.

John's face of open concern immediately hardened to stony dislike. "What about him?" He asked tersely.

Melissa turned back to face the Sheriff. "Walk me through how you knew him again."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

 _"_ _Are you sure?"_

 _"_ _Yes, I'm sure! Why would I make any of that up?"_

 _"_ _You wouldn't, it's just…"_

 _"_ _Just what?"_

 _"_ _Why wouldn't he tell me? Did he think I would be upset? Or angry?"_

 _"_ _Well, to be fair, you sound both upset and angry."_

 _"_ _I have every right to be angry!"_

 _"_ _Shh! Keep your voice down; he'll hear you."_

Stiles gripped his head between his hands, the heels of his palms digging into his temples, trying to dispel the explosive ringing in his head.

He knew.

His dad knew. And he was angry. At Stiles. Just like Stiles knew he would be.

He couldn't stay here.

He couldn't stay and let his father smile condescendingly at him and tell him that it wasn't Stiles' fault.

That none of the blame was on him.

Stiles knew that part of the reason Cullen had done what he had done had been because Claudia, Stiles's mother, was dead. And both Stiles and Cullen knew that that had been Stiles' fault.

He couldn't stay here.

He couldn't stay and face Melissa, who would tell him that she told his father because she had to. Because it was necessary.

He didn't think he could face her again after dissolving into an emotional wreck right before her eyes earlier.

 _He couldn't stay here._

He couldn't stay and try to ignore the pity that his friends tried to mask behind smiles and laughs and jokes.

He didn't want to keep feeling like an exotic animal in a glass cage, where all the scientists stare and observe falling apart but don't actually do anything to help you.

 _ **He couldn't stay here.**_

…

So he left.

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Thanks for reading! Drop me a review if you've got the time! All the love and sleep!


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